


Of Truths and Lies

by Shuriken7



Series: A Collision of Worlds [5]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Historical, Historical Hetalia, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Pre-Relationship, Romance, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-11-13 23:23:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11195622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shuriken7/pseuds/Shuriken7
Summary: Companion fic to We Hold These Truths (Part of the Collision of Worlds Series) which covers the events of the American Revolutionary War. A sequel to Finding Roots.Canada has decisions to make, questions of loyalty and what blood matters most. Who should, who can, determine his own future? When one's brothers fight, how does one even begin to choose?France sees a chance for revenge for the humiliation England served him in the Seven Years War, but when that revenge involves hurting his innocent love, what can he possibly do?





	Of Truths and Lies

_March 1776_

_British Encampment in Canada_

Canada sat down at the writing desk, moving away from the uniform sitting in a box on the top of a bunk. He lay his head down on the wood. 

He could sense the bustle of the camp and the sentiment towards America. He had left like he’d asked, but his men still occupied Montreal and many of the border forts. His soldiers were making so much trouble for the Loyalists that many of them were leaving. He’d needed to sneak his letters to the British vessels himself, crossing the lines between England and America’s men. Every time he wondered whose side he was on. America had gotten pushier and the plan seemed more and more dangerous. Canada had seen the pamphlets that America’s people were publishing. They were enticing… but crazy. 

England was going to send more troops. He had promised. Canada wanted to trust him.

Canada had arrived at the edge of the encampment, one of the Canadian soldiers took him to the commanders. They were expecting him. A letter waited for him from England. The uniform. Canada felt a warmth grow in his chest. England hadn’t forgotten him. England trusted him.

He turned his head so he could see the crimson coat on the cot. He pushed himself up and walked over to the uniform, picking it up. The weight pulled at his fingers as he pulled the jacket on. There was a small shaving mirror in one corner and he examined his reflection.

“I’m making the right choice.” Canada said, pulling the coat around himself. He began to dress in the rest of the uniform, folding his old clothes as he did. He could see the flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye as he finished the buttons on the white waistcoat and pulled the red coat back on. “Hello, Miss Fairy.” he said, one of England’s creature’s going through the pockets of his old clothes.

The fairy buried itself into his jacket’s pocket and emerged with a battered silver coin. 

“No, you can’t have that!” He came forward and pulled it from the fairy’s clutches. The little creature pursed its lips and frowned at him.

“What is it?”

“It’s a gift from a long time ago.” He turned the coin over in his fingers, the faded profile of one of France’s past king nearly rubbed off its surface. 

“When?”

“It was the first thing of France’s I ever had. I found it in his camp when he had returned back to Quebec.” He looked down at the object, memories of France floating up into his mind. When he looked back up the fairy was gone. He sat down slowly on the edge of the bed. What would France think? 

He closed his fist over the metal. “I have to do this. I hope you’ll understand.”

***

_August 1776_

_Palace of Versailles, Paris, France_

The sun was warm and a soft breeze cooled the sweat on his limbs. His summer linens were not quite enough to keep comfortable, so he had left the stuffy interiors of the palace and taken refuge in the shade of a large hedge. France took a sip of the chilled wine before handing it back to Spain. He leaned backward onto the blanket he’d brought and watched the white clouds. Spain joined him in a moment, resting his head on France’s outstretched arm. They lapsed into a sleepy comradery. France let his eyes drift shut. 

“Is this what you are doing these days?” A kick to the sole of his shoe caused him to open one eye to see who would be so brash as to disturb him. He smiled at Prussia who stood over them a disapproving look on his face.

“My young King and Queen have completely exhausted me.” Prussia rolled his eyes. France continued, “He has so many ideas for government, new art, he’s adapting the ballet from Russia… so many things.” He reached up a lazy hand, beckoning the prickly German to join him. Prussia made a show of reluctance, but soon he was sprawled out beside France, all three friends staring up at the summer sky.

“I can’t believe you are lazing about when there are things happening to your dearest enemy.” Prussia brandished a folded piece of paper in front of France’s face.

“Which one?”

“You know which one.”

“And who is causing England undue stress these days if not me?” France took the paper and unfolded it. He began to read the words, “The unanimous Declaration of the thirteen United States of America…” He sat up, dislodging a napping Spain who grumbled before rolling over and going back to sleep. 

He devoured the words on the paper, Prussia leaning over his shoulder. It was obvious he had read the words before, but was interested enough to take them in again. 

Little _Amerique_ had declared independence from Great Britain. 

He scanned the paper again, a little disappointed that it made no mention of Canada, what was the boy doing if not joining his brother?

“What do you think?” Prussia asked. 

“I think that rubbing England’s nose in this will be the greatest fun I have had over the last century.” France ran a finger over the parchment lovingly. He’d been waiting for a moment like this ever since England had humiliated him on the battlefields of the Seven Years War. 

“He’s hired Hesse to go after the boy.”

“I think they have both underestimated America then, I have seen him in action. England may think he has the upper hand…” France winced, remembering the blow he had taken at America’s hands a decade before. 

“Are you thinking of getting involved?” France turned his head. Prussia was sitting close enough that France could lean forward and brush their noses together. Prussia pulled back a little, but not terribly far.

“The fact that you asked me makes it sound like you are interested in doing so.” France shifted, shaking Spain lightly on the shoulder so that he would wake up and read the paper. He handed it over to him and turned back to Prussia.

“One of my barons is very interested. He has been following the outcome of the battles through the spy channels. I don’t think this America has much discipline.”

“Well, England protected him more fiercely than I would have expected. Much to my detriment.”

“This isn’t your old colony is it?”

“No, this one is England’s.”

“Who is biting him in the ass, _si?”_ Spain said, completing his reading of the Declaration and handing it back to France. “I would have loved to have seen his face. Poor _Inglaterra._ ”

“I can’t feel bad for the bastard. He couldn’t be more heavy-handed if his fists were made of lead.”

“Oh, how poetic, Prussia. Are you still sore over that punch he threw you in the Seven Years War?”

“Considering that you are all giddy with thoughts of revenge, I think that you are still pretty sore from that altercation, too.” Prussia gave him a look and France gave a haughty turn of the head. Prussia and Spain began talking, but France didn’t hear their words. He could just see it, England’s face when he found out that America’s guns came not from his own lands, but from France’s. That his ships were bringing goods to help America break free. That he wasn’t ripping America from his hands like England had done with Canada, but America was pulling away himself. What had happened between them? The last time he had seen them together he figured America would be licking England’s boots like a loyal dog for centuries. The boy had been completely in love with the English bastard. 

So what had changed?

France pushed himself up from his seat, dusting some leaves off his clothes. Prussia and Spain looked up at him. “Where the hell are you going?” Prussia asked.

“I have a little trip to prepare for.”

“You’re going to tip your hand. If you are going to rub salt in England’s wound it would be more effective if he didn’t see it coming.”

“While I appreciate your opinion I have my own tactics in mind.” He whirled on his heel and started out of the garden towards the palace. 

He had some big things to plan. He bumped into a young man, “Ah, Lafayette excuse me.” The young Marquis de Lafayette looked up at him and with his typical good natured attitude brushed it off. The young man was only nineteen, but had been establishing himself as a member of the court for years. 

“France, have you seen this?” He held up a copy of the same document that Prussia had thrown into his hands not long ago. “Fascinating is it not?” France had the stirring of an idea at the sight of the eager young soldier.

“Yes, we will speak more about this in the future.”

“I look forward to it, my country.”

France continued on his way, inspiration swelling in his veins and making his heart beat faster. There were many things that needed to be done and America had set more in motion than he could probably guess.

***

_June 1777_

_Quebec, British America_

France had intended to go to New Orleans just as he’d told America. He was going to wander through the streets soaking up a colonial version of his own culture steeped in the warm humidity of that wide river and mixed with Spain’s influence. 

However, the thought of New France caught in his mind. _Canada._ Would he be as tall as America? Would he still have the same soft smile he’d worn before? The idea would not leave him until he began to head north. He left his entourage behind and adopted his old disguise. England was somewhere on this continent and he would prefer to avoid him.

Quebec was far drabber than it had been, but France couldn’t be sure whether that was true of the growing town or just his memory playing him false. He had a feeling that Canada was nearby, but someone else was as well. “Damn you, _Angleterre.”_ France muttered under his breath. He balled his fists and considered his options. He was inside the town, but where to go? 

It was certainly a dangerous position from all sides. Red coats roamed around the town, England was fortifying. Already tensions had been high with the campaign, after all America had attacked Canada’s position although to little effect. France frowned, he’d learned more about that since arriving, perhaps he needed to say something to America. He shook his head, it would likely make America even more wary of him and he needed that boy to work with him. If Canada would join America in the cause, however, he would no longer be under England’s thumb. He squashed that hope as it grew, it was foolish, Canada had already turned down America forcefully several times.

Skirting around a pack of red coats he found a place to wait for Canada to appear. He was not going to leave this town until he saw his boy. _England’s boy,_ he corrected himself. The awful truth of the matter.

He needed liquor and the public house would serve.

Unfortunately, it was full of British soldiers and only served ale and cider. The cost of anything more was astronomical. The food was not particularly imaginative, but it was hardy. He was halfway through a second ale when a young man sat down across from him. France lifted his head to strike up a conversation for appearance’s sake, but his mouth went dry. He’d aged, his face was thinner. It was his violet eyes in particular that looked like they’d aged more than twenty years.

“What are you doing here?” Canada asked, his brow furrowed. France felt his heart break a little at the sound of the French on the boy’s tongue. It cracked further when he realized Canada was draped in the red coat of a British soldier. America had never even worn them, England always insisted on provincial uniforms. What had Canada done to earn it? The colony reached out a hand to the center of the table. “What are you doing here?” he repeated.

France picked up the ale and took a long draw. It was bitter, but it moistened his mouth enough to speak. “I was on the continent...”

Canada’s face changed and he looked away. His face twitched as he tried to keep his expression as neutral as possible. “Why now?”

“I was speaking with America.” 

Canada turned back, surprise crossing his face. “Why?”

France reached out and caught Canada’s wrist. He stiffened, but did not pull away. “I know you are not stupid, you know why I was seeing him.” He met Canada’s eyes and saw the understanding.

“You’re fighting with him?”

“I don’t intend to fight at all at the moment, your brother has enough spirit to go around. From the looks of things, though, you are being asked to fight him.” He dug his fingers a little deeper into the coat. Canada looked down at France’s pale fingers splayed across the red fabric. He yanked back, keeping his hands out of France’s grasping fingers.

“He is fighting to protect me. He’s the only one that can.”

“That is not the only way.”

“No! It is.” Canada said, speaking before he could say anything more. An awkward silence gathered around them. Some of the other soldiers eyed them curiously. France made a show of ordering more ale until the onlookers were satisfied. When he turned back to Canada his emotions had been reined in, his face carefully blank. However, even when the drinks arrived his cheeks were still flushed.

France gathered his words. “I shouldn’t have... I should have fought...” It felt strange, to stumble over his words. He was always so sure. He’d imagined this moment in so many ways and it was not in a public house with Canada wearing England’s colors. 

“I am British now.” Canada said, his words changing to English. He stood up. “England needs me. I... I won’t help America.” His voice shook, the phrase sounding too practiced.

France reached for him. “Canada...”

“Don’t.” He took a deep breath. “You should leave.”

“Will you tell him that I was here?” France asked. Canada looked away from him.

“Yes. He told me you might try to interfere. He asked me to promise him that I would. I said yes.”

France got up from his chair. “Some promises can be broken.”

Canada frowned. “I know all about how you break promises. When America loses he will understand me better. Excuse me.” Canada brushed past him, tears welling in his eyes. France turned and went after him, the night growing chill. He nearly lost him in the crowd, but caught up to him on a quiet street. He caught Canada by the arm and dragged him into an alleyway. He struggled, but for all his remarks he was still just a colony and not a nation. France pushed him against the wall of the nearby house.

“I don’t know what England has filled your head with, but I did all I could to keep you! We don’t always get what we want!” France cursed and released him, turning away. “You have no idea what lengths I went to...” His voice trailed off, the knowledge that he should have let Canada walk away from him. He shouldn’t have come at all. It was his own selfishness that had brought him to this place.

The warmth at his back surprised him, as well as the embrace wrapping around him. Canada held him, his new height so unfamiliar. France lifted a hand and placed it over Canada’s. He felt each fine boned fingers, not wanting to ever let go. _What is wrong with me?_ “I hate seeing you in his colors.” The words tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them. Canada loosened his grip and France turned to face him. 

“You don't get to have a say. You chose not to fight for me...”

France gathered Canada’s hands in his own. He searched for words, anything to say. They were of a height now, Canada’s face close to his own. France couldn’t help but be reminded of that moment when Canada had pressed close, his lips soft against his own. Would he be able to turn away as he did before?

“Matthew!” England’s voice sounded so close that they both jumped. France saw him and knew in an instant that he was in his cups. Canada’s fingers dropped away, turning to intercept England before he could inspect the stranger in the alley too closely. “What are you doing out here?”

“Come Lord Kirkland we should get you back to your lodgings.” Canada said, catching the Englishman as he stumbled and wrapping England’s arm around his shoulders like an injured man. 

“America... why have you gone away?” Canada turned his head, a short glance back at France before turning his face to England.

“It’s all right, England, I’m here now. Let’s get you to bed.”

“You’re a good boy.”

France stepped into the shadows, anger boiling in his stomach as he watched them make their way down the street. _That bastard!_ He had no right, and yet, France had to accept England had every right to do as he pleased. France knew he had to walk away.

***

Canada tried to pay attention to England’s babbling as he helped him down the street. It was unseemly, but England was never far from the bottle these days. Some days he couldn’t even remember who he was speaking to, like now. He couldn’t really be angry at England. He was so sad, if America could just see... 

He looked over his shoulder once more, trying to see France. He caught one last glimpse of him before he turned away. His face was hard, revenge written into his features. They stumbled into the house and a servant was dispatched to ready the room. Canada managed to get him up the stairs and tipped him into the bed, pulling off his boots. He thought, perhaps, that England had fallen asleep, but he reached out to him as Canada bent over to blow out the candle.

“Canada...”

“I’m still here.”

“Do not be so distracted. Your brother will be courting others even though allies are foolish. America don’t put yourself in their beds...” England rolled away, burying his face in a pillow and shaking. Canada stared at him. _In their beds._ Canada put out the candle and walked quickly to his room. Was that what France was trying to tell him? That America had... no, it wasn’t possible. America knew how he felt about France, he wouldn’t do that, no matter how angry he was at him. 

_America wouldn’t do that to me._ Canada bit his lip, hoping it was true.

***

_March 1778_

_Philadelphia_

They delivered the missive to him first. Canada accepted it at the front door, looking out at the street in front of America’s Philadelphia house. He’d been her before, many times in fact, but now it felt strange. The ground itself seemed to chastise him with every step. _You are not America,_ each step whispered. Not the right North American. The feeling curled in his stomach every time England looked at him and he knew he was seeing America through the haze that liquor provided him. 

“Urgent delivery, Colonel Williams.” The messenger had to clear his throat, before Canada remembered he needed to actually accept the papers. He brought the papers inside, closing the door against the darkness.

Laughter erupted from the dining room. England had been with his generals all day. It had started seriously enough, but with dinner having been served the drink flowed more freely. Canada watched England down glass after glass. He’d left somewhere around the uncorking of the third bottle of madeira. That was how he’d been sitting in the parlor when the messages arrived. 

Canada went back to his seat, settling the little package wrapped in a red ribbon on the desk. He still couldn’t think of it as England’s even if the last time America had been sitting there he’d been penning treason. Canada went back to his book, but something about the little packet tugged at him. He should go and get England, tell him there is urgent news. He listened to the noise of the dining room. Even if he was drunk he sounded, at least, a little joyful. 

Without prompting, England wasn’t going to be leaving until the hour was late and the spirits were gone. Canada sat his book down and got up, picking up the dispatches. Perhaps he could spare England until the morning? He slid his finger underneath the seal. Only a moment’s hesitation and then the wax cracked as he pulled his finger upward. No going back now. _It’s fine, he’ll appreciate a simplified report._ It was an excuse for his curiosity and he knew it. Canada bit his lip. _It’s just fact finding, not a betrayal. You are not America._

He brought the papers over to the candle, looking at the names of the correspondents. One stuck out in particular, the Minister to France along with the Prime Minister. A furtive glance toward the door. Another popped seal.

_Dear Lord Kirkland,_

_It is with deep regret that I inform you that an alliance has been formed between the colonies in rebellion and the Kingdom of France._

Canada stared at the paper, reading the sentence over and over. His hands felt cold and his fingers shook. He’d had a feeling when America left the continent. It was like he’d misplaced something and wasn’t certain what it was or where he’d left it. He’d sat by England’s bedside for days after he’d given him the news. His face! The look of pure anguish on England’s face before he fell! After the doctor had left, he sat in a chair watching him all night, trying to keep his own emotions in check. _Guard your heart,_ he’d repeated over and over. The only trouble was that he kept hearing it in France’s voice on the day he left him to England’s mercy, Canada’s kiss still on his lips. _Guard your heart, because I’m going to break it,_ was what France should have told him. 

The numbness of those days filled him anew, the paper floating to the floor. He wanted to grind it into the carpet, _America’s_ carpet, and smash the knowledge into the very center of the earth. He wanted to banish the knowledge that America was with France. That France had thrown his weight onto America’s side.

_What was so damned bloody special about America?!_

Canada stood up, snatching the paper from the floor. The fire flickered cheerily in the grate, warding against the march night, completely innocent to the fact the world was turning upside down. It would be able to devour the paper quickly. The flames warmth prickled his skin as he held the dispatch over it. He pulled it away after a minute.

Burning it wouldn’t make it less true. Burning it wouldn’t take away the possibility that France had given to America what he had always wanted. Loyalty. Closeness. Love, even.

_Had they...?_

Canada put a hand on his chest, trying to calm the pound of his heart. That was the way of things wasn’t it? He wasn’t blind. Growing up, he knew France and England had relations with each other. He’d accidentally caught correspondence that suggested all sorts of things. France had fled from him every time he’d tried to reach out. _Guard your heart._ He should have known better. Of course France liked England more, at least for that sort of game.

America. America was the problem here! Had his heart really hardened so quickly? Canada didn’t want to believe it. They had sat before too many fires and told him how much he wanted England to see him, to love him. There was no bloody sense to this!

“Colonel Williams, can I get you anything?” The voice startled him, but it was just an Ensign assigned to General Clinton’s party. Essentially, the young man just acted as a glorified servant. Canada could empathize with that role. He took a deep breath, hoping his voice wouldn’t shake.

“Could you please deliver these to Lord Kirkland when you have a moment. I am going out.”

“Is that a good idea? Not to question you, but there are reports of rebel sympathizers still in the town...”

“I am perfectly able to handle them.” Canada said, getting up and pulling on his coat. 

“Yes, sir, of course.” 

It didn’t take long until he was out in the crisp March night, stepping over puddles that had gathered in shallow ditches along the dirt roads. He had no destination in mind, only that he wanted to avoid any of America’s people. What would they think when they heard that a treaty with France had been finalized? The thought only went through his mind for a moment until he realized he didn’t care. 

America needed to explain himself. Where in hell was he? Still in France’s bed? On a ship coming back with the hull bursting with French armaments? What? 

_He’s doing it because he’s afraid. America knows how you feel about France, he might be fighting with you right now, but he’s not bad... England and him are both stubborn. France didn’t even think about me..._ as painful as that thought was.

Canada found himself out on the outskirts of town, there was a small inn. It was filled with soldiers, but perhaps someone would let him squeeze in. He didn’t want to face England tonight, not when he couldn’t decide whether to be enraged or sympathetic. Was it possible to feel both at once?

However, the truth was he didn’t want to feel anything at all.

***

_May 1778_

_Philadelphia_

France told himself that he was just here to extricate America when he bit off more than he could chew. The boy _was_ far more clever than he initially gave him credit for being. He wasn’t just trying to fight England in arms, he was fighting him in the shadows as well. He should have known better than to leave a forged invitation laying about.

The ball was quaint, but what could be expected? This was England’s fashion through and through. The second he entered the room he caught sight of him in the bottle green coat. It always was a good color on him. France stepped away from American and began weaving his way through the crowd. Anticipation curled in his chest over the things he could imply. In society, England had no choice but to behave. Seeing what it would take to break British poise was going to be fun.

France frowned as a group of generals descended on their nation, a woman pulling him into a Minuet. Well, what England was calling a Minuet anyway. Resigning himself to watch the dancers, he had to observe that America had better taste than England. He would take credit for the influence. The women were a mix of British and French fashions. It wasn’t much, but certainly the boy wouldn’t be a lost cause. He watched England politely look at the woman he was dancing with and then grow distracted by something on the edge of the crowd.

_Merde!_ America was going to give away the game before France even had a chance! He was supposed to observe from a distance, not put himself directly in the line of sight! Had England recognized him? Stupid boy!

He moved closer, intending to break into whatever was about to occur, but then he stopped. It was not recognition on England’s face. France recognized that expression, it was attraction. _That blind fool. He never knew when he had a bird in the hand._ America’s face was equally transparent. _You shouldn’t have bothered trying to lie to Big Brother._ It was the same look America had worn decades ago when he’d found France in England’s tent. If only England could look past those overlarge eyebrows...

Some words passed between the two and then America was gesturing towards the door. Had he lied about his inexperience as well? No, France decided, he was acting far too awkward to have made such an offer before. What would England do if he realized the object of attraction was the one rebelling against him? France took a step forward, intending to follow at a discreet distance.

“Mr. Bonnefoy, I didn’t expect to see you here.” The familiar voice broke his concentration, drawing him away from the scene playing out before him. Annoyance flashed through him as he took in Canada’s appearance. He could barely see the familiar violet eyes behind the British crowns adorning his face.

“I see Lord Kirkland selected your attire, poor taste _mon petit._ And didn’t you know? You are supposed to feign lack of familiarity during a masque. That way, one is not responsible for his actions.”

Canada’s mouth thinned. Damnation, when had he started looking more like England? It was just the expression, surely. “You take no responsibility for your actions, then?”

An easy smile came to France’s lips, Canada watched his mouth. “Not tonight.”

“What about yesterday? Or several weeks ago?”

France looked over his shoulder, the two had disappeared. Blast, he’d lost them. He turned back to Canada, the upset on his face evident even through his mask. France sighed. “Perhaps we should speak in private?”

“ _Non._ I don’t trust you.”

That hurt. France took a step back, hoping the shock at the emotion didn’t show on his face. “Your words are harsh.” he said.

“Your actions have been cruel.” Canada’s eyes dropped from his face. “I don’t understand what you are doing here.” He turned on his heel and retreated to the other side of the small ballroom. France watched him go. 

Canada must have seen America, perhaps even spoken to him while France had been focused on England. Any enjoyment Canada may have been having prior to their conversation was washed away, his shoulders drooping beneath the purple fabric. France wanted to reach out to him, pull him into an embrace and tell him he’d thought about him even as he’d kissed his twin. 

But that would have been a lie. And just hurt the poor boy more. England was the problem here, and Canada had put himself in the way. _I don’t want to have to shoot you to get to him, but I will, my dear innocent love._

***

The rage boiled in his stomach. Canada picked up one of the glasses on a table attended by footmen. The wine was too sweet, but he downed two glasses before someone brushed against the back of his jacket. He knew it was France without turning around. He’d come after him. Anger bubbled in his chest anew. If only France had stayed out of it! When his more pleasant dreams turned to things that never were between them, he used to wake up with only guilt. Now it was most often with a sense of numbness. Occasionally, it was pure rage.

Rage at himself for continuing to want France to see him. Rage at England for taking him away. Rage at America for putting him in this position. Rage that no one could see past America. Rage that France had given America what Canada wanted. 

The third glass was snatched from his hand before it made it to his lips. “You don’t want to start taking after Arthur in that way.”

“Why not? I’ve been abandoned by everyone else, he’s the only one I have.”

France pressed into his space, effectively herding him out of the crowd and towards the edge of the room. They were in a little pocket of space, just beyond another group of chattering locals and red coats. France kept his back to the room. “You have me and America. You do not have to--”

“How am I supposed to choose the two of you over England?” Canada’s felt the flush of anger and the alcohol had loosened his tongue. He thrust a finger into France’s chest. “You know how I felt. He knew! Yet, you fucked him anyway and he let you!” Canada felt his voice quiver even as the words came out in a forceful whisper. The shock on France’s face and the way his skin paled was satisfying.

Silence stretched between them, only broken by a passing servant offering a drink. France took one, draining it in one long gulp. With a precise motion he sat the glass down on a nearby table. Canada’s eyes were drawn to France’s hand. “Sometimes I forget how young you are.”

“America is the same.” Canada honestly didn’t know which one of them was older. They always seemed to exist side by side. “I’m not an innocent.”

“Indeed.” France said, his face becoming unreadable behind his mask. “If you’ll excuse me, Mathieu.” He bowed as though taking his leave from anyone else and turned away. No, France was not going to just walk away from him! He reached out and grabbed France’s wrist, fingers curling into the fine fabric of France’s jacket. His pale skin made a contrast against the burgundy colored coat. France didn’t look back at him.

It took everything he had to lift his hand. That anger that had flamed in his chest was going out. France was turning his back on him again. His hand slid off France’s arm. With not another word France disappeared into the crowd.

Canada felt sick and made his excuses to others. He fell onto his bed back in America’s room at the Philadelphia house and cried until he couldn’t anymore.

***

France leaned back against the tree looking up at the night sky. They had left in a hurry, America agitated, upset at England. The boy had fallen asleep some time ago, his breath a soft rhythm that France hoped would pull him into the sweet embrace of sleep. He should have expected it, Canada’s reaction. Poor boy.

France frowned. He’d thought the rumor about America had held some weight, that the boy had crawled into England’s bed and been burned by England’s notorious inability to really give himself up to anyone. But Canada? If he’d failed to take advantage of America’s innocence would he have really turned to the other British American?

_I’m not an innocent._

The words haunted him, chasing away any hope of sleep in trying to understand their meaning. It was obvious now the ruse that America was in his bed was working to get under England’s skin. Canada even believed it. It was what he wanted, after all. But the look that had come over Canada’s face. France wished he could have dragged him out of there, ripped off that mask, and seen all of his emotions. He could have explained.

But would he have?

England had Canada in his pocket. The poor boy was always loyal even when it hurt him. France ran a hand over his face. 

“We are a folly. The four of us.” he said to the stars. 

“What?” America asked, rolling over and peering at him in the darkness. France patted him on the head.

“It is nothing. Go back to sleep. Dawn will come soon enough and we have a long ride ahead of us.” France shifted, trying to make himself comfortable on the cold hard ground. He turned his back on America, thinking of what a strange family they’d created. He should know better, amity never lasted. Even this alliance with America would probably come to an end. He’d lived long enough to know that. One of them would break it. One day, England would cast off the colonies or they would leave him, just as America was doing now. It was the way of the world. 

France squeezed his eyes shut. The modern world was a cruel place for all of them.

***

_September 14, 1871_

_Chesapeake Bay, Off the Coast of Virginia_

The cabin rocked back and forth, the lantern swinging from its hook on the wall. The candlelight flickered over the paper as France considered what he wanted to write. He wanted to go over to the ship himself, if truth be told, but now was not the time. He would have it out with England sooner or later, they always did after all. Ever since he’d found him in the woods across the Channel that day so very long ago, when they had different names and spoke different tongues. France had seen a country to claim then, draw under his protection and own. When England grew up, that was where things had changed. France brushed the end of the quill over his lips, remembering. Heavens, it had been nearly a millennia ago that they’d met. A few centuries when they’d been as close as brothers, the ancient nations fading away around them.

It was during the Hundred Years’ War that everything had changed. France squeezed the quill a little harder, remembering those days. Who would be ruler? Why were they really so different? England gaining a sense of that obnoxious pride that he wielded against everyone else like a blunt blade. Betrayal. Death. Gore. Bloody battlefields. Flames. So many flames.

In the midst of it all, a tumble in a farmhouse when they were supposed to be negotiating a truce. They’d been youths then. Gangly teenage limbs and passions that stirred from their long history. France knew he was England’s first. Although he was certainly not the last. 

Pity that.

There had been the heady days after the War of the Roses, when England had tired of bloodshed and gotten a taste for the finer things. His king may have slighted France at the time, but King Edward IV had known how to enjoy himself. France had enjoyed England on many a night in the midst of heady wines and too much revelry. Then there had been that brief dabble in a treaty and perpetual friendship. Shame that didn’t last. The meeting on the Field of Cloth and Gold had been a glorious few days of debauchery. Spain couldn’t look either of them in the eye back then.

Then things had just gone sour. 

It was not only in their competition for the New World, England was never the same after his Civil War. Then that whole business with Scotland and the Jacobites. Goodness, that hadn’t even been that long ago.

It had almost felt like family when Canada and America were small. France sighed, dipping the quill back into the ink well. Family was for humans. Power was for nations. It was a lesson America was about to learn. 

France began to write, deciding to keep it short. England’s king could call himself King of France all he liked, it didn’t make it true. Just as when England had toyed with the word ‘love’ did not give it any weight. France paused, drumming his fingertips on the parchment. He smiled. England had fallen. He was weak where it came to this upstart colony full of grand ideas. Liberty. Freedom. France really did enjoy the sound of America’s convictions. 

The letter was dispatched. He waited, watching the ship, hoping to see the moment when England made his decision. France lowered the spyglass, smiling, seeing the British ship turning towards the coast. England was raising the sails, turning inland. It was just as he promised America. England would have to face it all. That thought gave him no small amount of glee. England had embarrassed him in the Seven Years War, used America as a tool to take Canada, to take territory across the globe. Now he was using the boy as his own.

“You are a useful bit of leverage, America.” France said, in the direction of the coastline. The boy was no doubt nearly there, ready to meet with all the men on the battlefield. They had the British army cornered in the south. This was going to be the end, France could feel it in his bones. “I cannot wait to see your face, _Angleterre._ ” 

***

_September 2, 1783_

_Paris, France_

_The Palace at Versailles_

It felt good to be back home. France leaned back in the copper tub and picked up a pitcher to pour steaming water over his head, washing away the memory of the ocean. Honestly, he could still smell the salt on his skin even though he’d bathed immediately upon return. He’d been at sea since he’d left America, capturing as many of England’s holdings that he could. Even though England had been fierce that day of the surrender, France could see that he was ready to deal. He wanted to put a certain young nation behind him. He smiled at that, England should know better. America had no intention of letting things alone. The poor boy had practically been bursting with nerves since he arrived a few days before, joining his delegation in their hotel. Shame the boy wouldn’t be staying at Versailles. 

The scene upon England’s arrival would have been worth the possible broken furniture. France ran his fingers through his hair, frowning slightly. The treaty he would be signing with England tomorrow was not exactly what he’d hoped. The territories in the Caribbean would be returned. Spain had gained more territory and he’d spent most of the war trying to take Gibraltar out of England’s clutches. Oh well, in the end he’d shamed the Englishman, which was what he wanted.

America was gaining not only his freedom, but England had been very generous. The boy’s land doubled in size. England would have to face his people constantly, remembering that America had broken free of his own volition and that he’d only needed a few French armaments to make it truth.

France leaned back in the tub and closed his eyes. Yes, he was going to be enjoying that look on England’s face for some time to come. He shifted, something tickling at the back of his mind. A consequence. He pushed it from his mind. There was no room to worry about consequences in his gilded palace filled with comfort and refinement. 

Bath finished, he wrapped himself in a robe. It was evening, too late to bother with any social visits, at least not the proper kind. An indecent visit may be in order, but to whom France wasn’t sure. Maybe he should summon little _Amerique,_ see if he was in an amorous mood at last. Probably not. Unfortunately, too much German industriousness had rubbed off on him with a dash of the Puritan ethos. If England himself walked into America’s bedchamber tonight asking the boy for a dalliance he would likely refuse until after the treaty was signed. Probably.

Stretching out on the cushions he could remember America laying here, warm with drink. He was going to be interesting, France was sure of it. Maybe when he’d settled a bit, matured. France just needed to make sure America didn’t start eyeing the Louisiana lands too much. Frowning, France rang for a servant to bring some wine. Yes, he’d already gotten a dose of America’s ambition. 

_What about an empire and an empire?_ he’d asked when he’d lain here. An empire and an empire indeed. Perhaps that was what had stirred France’s frustrated lust as far as the United States of America was concerned. He and England were really too similar. If amorous feelings were ever returned who knew what those two could do together. France shivered at the thought. 

He dozed, letting the warmth from the bath and the fire lulling him into sleep. The fire was low when he awoke, an insistent rapping at the door. France stretched, glancing at the mantle clock in the darkness. He could just make out the time. Two in the morning. 

Getting up, he wrapped the robe tighter around himself and went to the door. He pushed it open, expecting a servant. Instead, England was standing there, his cheeks flushed from drink. His shirt was loose and hanging over his breeches. Although the style had changed it could have been hundreds of years ago, in a different palace, on a different night.

“Let me in, damn you.” England said, shoving his way into the room. France could smell what he’d been into, whiskey. France stared at him. If he’d been human he probably would have killed himself by now, had he drunk the entire cask? He stumbled forward and collapsed onto the sofa that France had previously been occupying. England buried his face in a pillow and breathed deeply. 

France walked over and pulled a cushion close to the sofa. Before sitting down he went and gathered the chamber pot from beneath his bed. If England was going to be sick he would certainly not be doing it all over the furniture. France sat. “ _Merde._ You look like hell itself.” France said.

“I would rather be in hell.” England groaned.

“If so you are a fool.”

“A fool.” The words were wooden, strained. He fell silent for a moment, then his shoulders shook. France leaned closer, was he weeping? 

“ _Angleterre..._ ” France reached out and put a hand on his head. When was the last time he’d seen him actually weep? It had to have been centuries ago, when they’d still been lovers. Not after. Never after. England turned his head, so that France’s fingers brushed over his cheek.

“I need to forget.” he said, reaching out, his hand clumsy. He slid his hand in the collar of France’s robe, along his collarbone. A firm touch, a familiar touch, even after so many years. “Will you help me to forget?” France took hold of the roaming fingers and held them tightly. He could see England wince.

“Your boy not to your liking?”

England’s brow furrowed. “My boy?”

“Canada. I’ve heard you’ve been keeping him close.”

Surprise came over England’s face, anger quickly following. “He’s a child. I have not touched him.” France bit his lip. This was good news. However, he had to resist the retort about how not reaching for the one he wanted to forget was what had caused the problem in the first place. If it still had not crossed England’s mind that America wanted him, France certainly wasn’t going to say. At least not until a more opportune moment. That was a bit of leverage he wanted to keep to himself. It could be useful in more than one way.

“I see.” France said, curling his fingers beneath England’s chin and drawing a line down the other man’s throat. “Are you sure you are even capable, the state you are in?” England frowned, roughly grabbing France’s fingers and moving France’s hand to a much more telling location. 

“Do I feel incapable?”

France licked his lips. “No, you certainly do not. Shall we retire then?”

***

Canada jolted awake and for a moment he couldn’t remember where he was. The room was grander than anywhere he had ever been. Then he remembered. He could feel France here. It was this heady feeling of being surrounded by him. It was the same when he first set foot in England. There had been the gut wrenching feeling of leaving home then understanding. Standing in another country’s lands he could feel them everywhere. In the words their people spoke, in the stone, in the rivers, on the very air. It was strange, knowing that part of that culture was him, but at the same time completely separate. 

There was a weight moving around on the other side of the bed. “England?”

A groan answered. It was him. Canada sighed, this hadn’t been the first time England had ended up in his room instead of his own. Canada wasn’t sure why it happened, although he was beginning to think that England didn’t want to be alone. His elder brothers had taken no small measure of delight in his misfortune, so England couldn’t exactly go to them. Canada accepted it. He missed his brother too. It wouldn’t be right anymore, curling up next to America. They weren’t the same now. 

Sliding out of the blankets, Canada groped for a candlestick, padding over to the fire to light the wick from the coals. The room flickered to life. England was sprawled across the end of the bed, his clothes disheveled. Canada stepped closer, touching him on the shoulder, saying his name. No response. He had passed out. No wonder, really, considering that he smelled like a distillery. He was even missing one boot. “Where have you been?” Canada said towards England’s unconscious body. He rolled him over, England’s shirt front falling open where he hadn’t bothered to button it at the neck. There were red splotches, no doubt made by someone he’d taken to bed. _Wonderful,_ Canada thought sarcastically. 

It wasn’t until he leaned over to try and yank England’s remaining boot off that he smelled it. He knew the cologne. It was as familiar to him as the first scent of spring next to the St. Lawrence. 

_France._

With a hearty tug, the boot came loose and Canada threw it across the room. England had asked France for comfort. And he gave it to him. Like he’d given America arms and supplies. Like he’d given America his touch.

Jealousy curled in his stomach, an emotion he’d thought he’d set aside. When they were small he’d never been jealous of America. They were simply different. Before, America had tried to include him. Since the war that made them British America, he’d sought to claim him. If England had handed him over like America wanted...

Canada turned, looking at England lying on the bed, illuminated by the flickering candlelight. Like this, he didn’t seem so intimidating as he’d once been. America had brought him low, snapped something inside that Canada couldn’t even begin to fix. So low that he’d sought out France. Wales had told him all about that dalliance, although Canada was sure the elder nation had spared him some of the details. Although, apparently, things had really gone south when England caught France in bed with Scotland. When Ireland had chimed in about how he felt about France’s attributes, Canada had decided it was time to stop drinking with the rest of the British Isles for the time being.

Sighing, Canada moved back closer to the bed, tucking the blankets around England and putting a pillow under his head. He pulled on a robe and sat down in the chair next to the fire, reaching with the iron poker and stoking the flames. He tossed on another log. The flames gnawed at the wood, climbing higher in the grate. He didn’t hear the servants’ door sliding open.

“I didn’t think he would come here.” The words made him jump, leaping out of the chair. France gave him an incredulous look. “I am not going to hurt you.”

“You surprised me.” Canada replied, sitting back down in the chair, but watching France as he walked over to where England slept. Canada examined his back, the dark burgandy color of the robe, picked out with golden embroidery threads. His hair was loose, falling in waves over his shoulders. Canada wished he was closer, that he could press his face against his neck as he used to do, find out what would come from a kiss. Then he remembered. “He came from your bed didn’t he?” he said.

France stiffened. “ _Oui._ He did.” 

“Why?”

“You told me you were not innocent. Surely you know the ‘why’ of such things.” said France, slowly turning around, his blue eyes scanning Canada’s face. The heat of the flush surprised him. “Ah, so you have not taken any other nations to your bed. That comforts me.”

“What if I _had_ taken another nation to my bed? What would you have done?” Canada challenged. France examined him for a moment, an elegant tilt of the head. He rubbed a hand on the underside of his chin. Canada could remember the feel of the bristles of the beard that never seemed to grow in like a human’s. The anger he’d felt the last time they’d been alone bubbled up. The jealousy of America and the anger at France were about as intoxicating as England’s magicked whiskey. France shook his head. “Why won’t you answer?”

“Do you remember the night when I left you? When England was closing in on Montreal?”

“Of course I remember.”

“Do you remember what I told you?”

“Yes.” _Guard your heart._ “Is that what you are doing? And tupping England does that how? He’s hurting.” He bit his tongue, not meaning to sound so bitter. 

France shifted, wrapping his robe further around himself. “He didn’t want love tonight. That was not what I gave him. I hope you never have to understand.”

“Your protection has never done me much good.” Canada said, feeling a hint of satisfaction in France’s wince. 

“I would have hurt you more if I had not given it.” 

England shifted on the bed, drawing their attention. He groaned, burying his face in the blankets. Canada got up, brushing past France to wake him up should the nightmare progress. “America...” Of course, Canada thought, it would be tomorrow when they would see each other again. He would have to hide the liquor in the morning. Tucking the blankets tighter around him, Canada turned back to France.

“What do you mean you would have hurt me more?” Canada asked. France wasn’t looking at him, he was still watching the bulge that revealed England’s location on the bed. 

“Despite the time we spent together, Canada, you do not know me at all. Just as your brother did not know the depth of this one.” He waved a hand, gesturing to England. He looked in Canada’s direction when he didn’t reply. “Surely you know that your brother is in love with him.”

“Was.”

“Is.”

“That’s not what he told me.”

“That is because _Amerique_ is learning to lie. You two are not one anymore, you know this.”

Canada did know. America felt like a weight, their border defined, no longer a blur of superficial colonial boundaries. He could feel him still, but not the way it used to be. They were British America no more. He was Upper and Lower Canada. America was the thirteen United States. 

France was close to him, only an arm’s length away. Canada’s fingers curled into the brocade fabric on top of the bed to resist the urge to reach out. “What am I to you, now? You got your revenge on England for the war where you lost me by empowering America to push England away. Someone you say he loves.”

“Love can drive one to madness. England cannot lay claim to much, but his Shakespeare certainly wrote about that madness well, even if it was in such an unmusical language.” He sighed, “You see, Canada, it is dangerous for our kind to fall in love.”

“I’ve heard stories about how much you loved him. England.”

“And look what we’ve done to each other.” said France, his face sad.

Canada was silent, looking down at his hands. He looked at how rough they were between wielding shovels and axes and muskets. He glanced at France’s hands. They were worn too, although they’d been softened with all of the different salves and lotions used by the aristocracy. Hundreds of years of love, followed by hundreds of years of constant war. Since coming to Europe he’d met other nations, England and France’s passionate falling out was legendary amongst them. There were other nations too. Blood filled the void love lost made. “It doesn’t have to be that way.” he said, his voice soft. A whisper.

“ _Pardon_?”

“You called us the New World. It doesn’t have to be that way.”

“Doesn’t it? Look at the one before you. At your brother who refused to stay in the palace because he would be here.”

“You know them as well as I do, they are... well, there are many words to describe it. Perhaps imbeciles would be apt.”

France chuckled. Canada smiled. “They are indeed.” Silence stretched between them. Canada wished he could get up the courage to take France’s hand. It seemed wrong to do so, sitting here beside England on the bed while the two elder nations stank of each other. Why did he have to be the responsible one? After a few minutes, France turned away, going back towards the servant's passage to sneak back into his room. 

“Wait.” Canada said, getting up, following him to where he stood near the wall. This space was shadowed, the furniture throwing long shadows over their faces. Canada laid a hand on France’s arm, feeling the warmth of him through the robe. “I need to ask you something.”

“Go ahead.”

“Did... did you... on that day...? If I hadn’t been a colony, would you have kissed me back?” Canada looked up at him, but couldn’t quite see his expression in the darkness. France’s head was turned, looking towards the door. Slowly, he moved, his hands resting on Canada’s cheeks, fingers sliding through his hair. _Kiss me._

“You want to know if I would have taken your innocence?” His breath was warm on Canada’s face. Canada’s pulse sped up, little sparks of feeling ran up and down his body. _Kiss me, please!_ He reached up, putting his hands on France’s, feeling his skin beneath his own. “Do not ask me what I would have done to you if you were not so young... I am not... you think too highly of me.”

“I am not young now.”

“Yes, you are. So impossibly... you grew up too fast.” He was pulling away, slipping through Canada’s fingers. The door closed. Canada wrapped his arms around himself, trying to rub the memory of France’s warmth from his skin. He’d wanted him. If France would give himself to England without passion... why wouldn’t he take it from him? 

_My innocent joy._ He used to call him that. Canada suddenly felt an emotion clog his throat. He’d told America off for it, but he knew it was the same feeling. Not being seen. Or was it worse? France seeing him, not as a little boy, but a young man. A young man that he would not take in hand. That he pretended not to see when they were in public.

Canada leaned against the wall, trying to remember the kiss he’d given so many years ago. There had been humans, some good lovers, some not. None held a flame to that first kiss decades ago. He shivered, the fire was getting low again. He moved towards the bed and lay down next to England, getting his nose close enough to his clothes to smell France on him. 

“Someday.” Canada said to England’s back. He spoke to himself. To France. To England. Even to America. Someday.

He hoped that was the truth.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Otakuashels and I are working on getting stuff ready for book 3 wherein more drama awaits as the nineteenth century unfolds. Stay tuned!


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